


6 Inch

by Profrock



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs, i mean technically it's mostly cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Profrock/pseuds/Profrock
Summary: It’s not a ritual, per se, for Chris to take Viktor out somewhere the second night before the short program, but it happens more often than not. Usually it's harmless fun – a nice dinner, an opera – until one year, it's a strip club?





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry??? not really though, but i saw [this](http://adridong.tumblr.com/post/154422518170/yuuris-looking-for-a-sugar-daddy) art and i kind of just had to write it tbh

It feels as if Viktor has brought the Chicago wind in with him, in his pockets and in the folds of his coat and in his lungs. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking out the melting snow and groans, rubbing his tired eyes. He peels off layer after layer of clothing; his scarf, his pea coat, his button up, his shoes, his socks, his trousers, and finally the skin-tight workout clothes he wears underneath it all. He stands in the center of his too-quiet hotel room, reveling in the feeling of nakedness. For the first time all day, he feels like he can breathe.

His muscles twinge when he rolls his shoulders, shaking out the day’s work. He had worked himself hard, drilling his routine over and over in the week leading up to Skate America. He knows his entire routine by heart; he could run it perfectly in his sleep, but he still needs to perfect those subtle little touches that take his program from great to awe-inspiring. It is what he's known for, after all.

The hotel room is large, too empty and too quiet. He sighs, and the noise echoes around the room, bouncing back on him from all sides. He shivers. The marble floor of the bathroom burns the soles of his feet, and he shuffles across the freezing tile, hopping onto the saving island of the plush bathmat. Steam and Viktor’s humming fill the room as he draws himself a hot bath. He frowns when he realizes he’s humming the music to his program, shaking his head and tip-toeing back across the cold floor for his phone. 

The water nearly burns Viktor's skin when he lowers himself into the porcelain tub, groaning as he submerges his sore shoulders. The hot water is heavenly against his back, soaking into his protesting muscles and down to his bones as he melts against the side of the tub. His head lolls back over the rim, his hair hanging limply off his scalp. His eyes slide blissfully shut, and Viktor finally relaxes for what feels like the first time in months. He reaches over the edge of the tub for his phone, bringing it up to his face and squinting at the too-bright screen, fumbling with it until bright, synthetic pop music seeps from the speakers, tinny and thin in the cavernous room. Oh well. It's miles better than silence.

Pop music is Viktor's guilty pleasure. He's partial to J-Pop and K-Pop despite speaking maybe a dozen words of each language; the way the words roll smoothly off the rapper's tongues is just so appealing to him. English chart-toppers also grace his playlist, from Nicki Minaj to Zayn Malik to The Chainsmokers. The repetitive, simple music soothes him, especially when he has three-hundred-year-old concertos and full-band orchestral pieces running through his head on a constant basis.

Viktor can't exactly sing along but he does sing the sounds he knows, his tongue wrapping awkwardly around mock Japanese syllables. He sings the English hooks and the Japanese he's memorized phonetically, though he has no idea what he's saying or what it means. He sinks a little lower in the bath, his chin and lips slipping below the waterline and his shoulders pulling awkwardly where he has elbows hooked over the lip of the tub. With a huff Viktor pulls his arms into the bath with him, luxuriating in the feeling of heat easing the ache in his bones. He vaguely remembers Mila talking about something called a "bath bomb." Maybe he should try one before he leaves the States.

Viktor doesn't realize his eyes have closed until they're being wrenched open by Christophe's hand shaking his shoulder.

“What?” Viktor mumbles, in quick succession of Russian, English, and French. International competitions always screw with his brain, and he was just asleep, anyways. It's almost second nature for him to respond to everything in a half-dozen different languages in hotels by this point, given how much he does it for competitions.

“Good morning to you too, Sleeping Beauty,” a low voice, English mixed with a guttural Eastern European accent. Viktor squints and looks up. “I didn't expect you to be an Ariana Grande guy, but you are determined to surprise,” Chris says with a half-lidded smile.

“What do you want, Chris?” Viktor's voice and eyes are tired. The water is getting cold. He closes his eyes again when he feels the tension settling back into his shoulders, weighing on his body and his mood. He tips his head back and groans. It was good while it lasted.

Chris cocks his head, a dewy smile gracing his attractive features. Viktor’s half-lidded steel-blue eyes meet warm, open green ones, and Viktor sighs.

“How well do I need to get dressed?”

It’s not a ritual, per se, for Chris to take him out somewhere the second night before the short program, but it happens more often than not. One time it was salsa dancing, which Viktor had been surprisingly good at. (He didn't have the heart to tell Chris it was because he had already been choreographing the next season’s short program, which featured some flamenco moves). One time it was a candlelit dinner for two, which both men had a laugh explaining to the press who discovered them. One time it was mini-golf, which had resulted in a broken golf club (over Viktor’s knee, no less) and two very furious skaters who wouldn't talk to each other for the rest of the cup.

Chris’s eyes sparkle and he dips his hand into the lukewarm bath water, bringing his hand up to cup Viktor's cheek and letting the water bead down his skin.

“Nicely,” Chris finally says, standing from where he had been crouching by the tub, “but not over the top. Think the tightest pants you own and a shirt that showcases all eight of your abs.”

“Where the _fuck_ are we going?” Viktor asks, standing from the tub. He doesn't care that he is standing dripping and naked in front of Chris. They’re good enough friends and nonchalant enough people for it to not be weird. Chris keeps his eyes on Viktor’s face, nothing about him changing when Viktor stands up. He winks, his full lips pulling up into an unintentionally seductive smirk. Viktor just rolls his eyes, reaching for a towel and wrapping it around his waist. He’s pretty sure he has that maroon shirt that impeccably hugs his shoulders and torso is around here _somewhere…_

***

Viktor finds Georgi and JJ leaning against the wall close to the revolving door when he gets down to the lobby. Georgi perks up when he sees the other two skaters, smiling wide and tipping a wave. He’s in a sleeveless black shirt and heeled leather boots Viktor is secretly jealous about, though he’ll never say anything. JJ doesn’t even look up, just scrolls his phone and looks unfairly attractive. And he looks _good_ : a loose tank top hangs off his shoulders, baring his prominent collar and sculpted biceps and Viktor suddenly feels overwhelmingly self-conscious about his own body. He wishes he had brought more layers. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, trying to at least tug it up over the faint smattering of chest hair the plunging neckline reveals but to no avail. Chris sends him a concerned look, and Viktor shrugs it off, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his foot. Chris had left his sweater in Viktor’s hotel room, revealing a skin-tight long sleeved tee that ripples with Chris’ stomach muscles whenever he moves and Viktor unconsciously brings his arms down over his torso, gripping his own waist and trying to cover as much of his body as he can. Chris throws an arm around Viktor’s shoulders, startling him out of his sulking.

“Ready, you two?”

JJ looks up, cocking a perfectly manicured eyebrow and sliding his phone in his back pocket. He stretches, reaching his arms up and back behind his head and pushing his chest out. His tank top slides even further off his left shoulder, and Viktor’s eyes hit the floor. JJ picks up the button up shirt he had hung on the banister next to him, sliding it over his shoulders and pulling the hem until it falls correctly over his torso. Georgi just pushes off the wall, nodding once and sending a concerned eyebrow to Viktor. He shrugs it and Chris’ arm off.

Viktor suddenly feels very, very underdressed in his t-shirt and greywashed jeans. He shivers, wishing he had brought a sweater.

“You'll be warm once you get there,” Chris says with a laugh and a knowing smile. JJ smirks along, his eyes shining with mischief. Even Georgi is in on it, if the slant of his eyebrows is anything to go by.

“Where are we going where a kid can get in?” Viktor snarks. JJ laughs knowingly, his eyes sparking with mischief. Viktor just sighs, running his hand through his hair. Distantly, he's glad Chris is doing this for him. It means a lot to him that the skater would do things like this for him. But he doesn't contain his eye roll when Chris ushers him out of the hotel and into a nondescript black rental car. Chris is driving; JJ is in the front, and Viktor reluctantly shoves himself into the back seat next to Georgi, not even bothering with a seatbelt and reclining against the window with his legs thrown over Georgi’s lap, who mumbles about it, but doesn’t protest. The windows are tinted; Chris must have done that on purpose.

Chris and JJ and Georgi make light conversation as Chris drives, Viktor occasionally pitching in but mostly just staring at his reflection in the darkened window. He brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, sighing heavily. Chris fixes his eyes on Viktor's in the rearview mirror, cocking his head. He’s obviously concerned, but Viktor waves him off, going back to sulking at his reflection. He tries to roll one of the windows down, just for something to do, but Chris rolls it right back up and then locks it, so Viktor can't open it.

“Chris,” Viktor complains, rolling his head back so it lands with a thump against the window. “What the fuck?”

“You can't know where we're going,” Chris explains, and Georgi giggles conspiratorially.  Viktor throws his hands up in resignation; it would take more effort for him to argue, anyways, and he doesn't have the energy.

 

***

 

Viktor doesn’t open his eyes again until he feels the car roll to a stop. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, stretching his arms above his head as well as he can in the cramped backseat. Chris lets himself out and comes around to open Viktor's door, ushering him out of the car. Viktor stumbles a little bit, but quickly regains his footing and looks around. He squints at the sign above the building Chris is parked right in front of.

“Chris,” Viktor says plainly. “What. The. Fuck.”

“It's a strip club,” Chris explains, as if that isn't painfully obvious by the lewd signage decorating the building. Viktor turns on him with an unimpressed glare.

“Exactly. It's a strip club. So why the hell have you brought me here?”

Chris opens his mouth to respond, but JJ beats him to it. “You need to get that stick out of your ass, and it was my suggestion to replace it with a cock.” Viktor sputters at his words, fuming and indignant.

“Isn't my sex like my _own_ business? What made you king of it?”

“I'm the king of everything,” JJ says with his trademark wink, and Viktor just glares at him. JJ rolls his eyes. “Come off it, Vik. Let loose; enjoy. Day after tomorrow is the shorts, and I don't want all the judges to think you're constipated the whole time. Where's the fun in winning against you when you aren't at your best, hmm?”

Viktor grinds his teeth together. “Why are you here? Don't you need to be twenty-one to go to clubs in the States? Aren't you _engaged_?”

JJ laughs, a bright, open, airy sound Viktor immediately envies. JJ pats his shoulder, and it takes everything Viktor has to not shake him off. Or punch him. “Have you ever heard of a fake ID and a trusting relationship?”

Chris pushes both skaters forward with a hand on between their shoulder blades. Viktor huffs and ducks his head, pulling his hair into his face to hide it. JJ keeps his head up, tossing a flirty wink to any and everyone who meets his eyes. Chris chuckles, leaning in to mutter in Viktor’s ear, “Come on, Viktor. I know a dancer here, and he is very, very good, trust me. I just want to help you unwind, that's all. Trust me, I'll take care of you.” Viktor just sighs, but Chris can tell by the slope of his shoulders that he's done resisting.

“ _Bon garçon_ ,” Chris hums, tipping Viktor’s chin up with two fingers. “Now let's get inside and let my _petite sale pute_ work his magic on you, yeah?”

“I don't feel like I have a lot of say in the matter,” Viktor says with a wry smile, but he follows Chris and JJ and Georgi in regardless. The tall, muscular man in wraparound shades at eight p.m. barely even glances at their IDs before ushering them in. JJ looks hurt as he slides his wallet back into his pocket.

“I don't know whether to be flattered or offended he thought I was legal,” JJ hums directly in Viktor's ear. Viktor rolls his eyes, elbowing lightly at JJ’s chest.

“Whatever you feel, I'm too sober to be dealing with it.” Viktor starts picking his way across the room to the wall-to-wall bar. The place is surprisingly nice; the floor isn't sticky, and the large room is artistically lit. The music is terrible and poundingly loud, just the way Viktor likes is. There are a lot of girls on the floor, busty and barely dressed and in heels bigger than JJ’s ego, but Viktor keeps his head down and pushes past them with a mumble of “sorry” if he brushes into them. Most of them take it pretty well; there are one or two who cuss Viktor out under their breath but Viktor just winces in apology and presses on. It feels like forever until he finally reaches the bar, gasping out “dirty martini, strong” to the bearded bartender who responds with a sympathetic nod, turning around to prepare the drink. JJ materializes at Viktor's shoulder with a glass of something that smells like whiskey, and Viktor wrinkles his nose.

JJ notices, and rolls his eyes. “Vodka purist.”

“I didn't say a fucking word. You aren't even legal, so shut up and enjoy your nail polish remover.”

Chris giggles softly at Viktor's left side, and Viktor turns on him with a glower, downing his entire drink. He waves his hand, getting the bartender's attention. “Another, please.” The bartender nods, whisking Viktor's empty long-stemmed glass away and replacing it with a full one. Viktor sips it lightly, rolling his head to look at Chris. “Okay. What kind of дерьмо are you going to get me in?”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Chris says, winking around the straw poking out of his Long Island iced tea. “We have a table in the front, show starts in ten.”

Viktor follows Chris to the corner booth, slumping into the seat and cradling his drink close to his face. Georgi slides in next to him with a small, orange drink in hand, and JJ and Chris take the other bench. JJ rolls his eyes at Viktor’s pout, turning his head to rake his eyes appreciatively over the girls on the stage. Chris toys with his straw then looks over as well, falling into easy, staccato conversation with Georgi over the pulsing music overhead.

Maybe five minutes pass before the lights and music dim. The club had already been full to start with, but now it's crowded, with people filling every table and even some standing in the aisles. Viktor looks around, and he’s unable to keep the bite out of his tone when he remarks, “I'm assuming your _friend_ is the next act, Chris.”

Chris nods excitedly. “I can't wait to see his routine. I helped him with some of it, but I've never seen the finished-” Viktor barely feels guilty as he tunes Chris out, focusing on the rustling curtains that wing the stage. Their booth is close to the front but off to the right, no more than a meter away from the raised wooden stage. A pole gleams in the middle of the stage, tall and chrome and ready to be used. Viktor tries not to think about it.

The music changes; the pulsing, bass-heavy EDM abruptly ends, and a man – who looks to be the club’s manager of some sort – comes out onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man announces. Viktor looks around. He's right; a fair percentage of the audience is composed of women now, looking just as if not more predatory and hungry then the men. “I present, for your enjoyment, Yuuri Katsuki!”

‘ _Yuri.’_ Viktor snorts to himself, sipping his martini. All he can think of is Yuri Plisetski pole dancing and he giggles, leaning in to share his thought with Georgi when the dancer comes out onto the stage. Any laughter Viktor had is trapped in his throat, and he chokes uncontrollably.

“ _B_ _aise-moi,_ ” Viktor whispers as soon as he gets his breath back, and Chris giggles. “I know, right?”

The man is… _fuck._ Beyoncé’s ‘ _6 Inch’_ starts playing from the loudspeakers as the man struts into the stage, and Viktor’s heart spasms in his chest. The man – Yuuri, rather – is dressed very simply and very scantily, in nothing but a white button down shirt that hugs every contour of his chest. He’s not skinny but he is muscled, and the buttons of his shirt strain against his chest when he pushes his arms back in a ribcage stretch Viktor knows does wonders for breathing. Black boyshorts and a band around his upper right thigh peek out from under the hem of the shirt when he waves to the cheering crowd, the black lace standing out against his pale, unblemished skin. Viktor just wants to have those thighs wrapped around his head, _fuck_ . What really seals whatever deal Viktor's been making with himself is Yuuri’s shoes; thigh-high, lace-up, suede boots with a rounded toe and a six-inch, shiny chrome heel. “ _Like ice skates,”_ the small part of Viktor’s brain that still has blood flow supplies. Viktor shakes his head dizzily, and Chris reaches over, pushing Viktor’s mouth shut with his hand.

The crowd is cheering and the dancer waves to everyone, blowing kisses and shimmying his ass for a few giggles. He barely even looks over to the side where Viktor’s table is, concentrating most of his attention on the crowd in the center of the room.

The music drops and so does Yuuri, facing and gripping the pole as he sinks down into a deep squat. Viktor is very, very glad no one can hear the little, embarrassing, whimpering noise he makes over the roar of the crowd and the beat of the music. Yuuri turns his head to the right, capturing Viktor’s eyes. Viktor is pretty sure his face is stupid and undignified, but he can't find it within himself to care so long as Yuuri keeps looking at him with _that_ heat in his eyes. Yuuri pulls his eyes away much too soon, rolling his hips back and up as he stands.

_Six inch heels, she walked in the club like nobody's business,_

Yuuri steps his right leg out, bending himself nearly in half as he runs his hand from his toes, up his covered shins and up to his thighs, teasing them in the waistband of his underwear.

_Goddamn, she murdered everybody and I was her witness,_

‘ _He's gonna murder_ me _if the keeps this up,’_ Viktor thinks, enraptured by the spectacle before him. Yuuri grabs the pole in a loose fist, stepping in two lazy circles around it. Viktor can almost hear the stomp of his shoe as it hits varnished wood and he shoves his hands into his lap, not taking his eyes off the tantalizing display in front of him.

_She stacking money, money everywhere she goes. Pesos out of Mexico,_

Yuuri jumps as soon as The Weekend’s voice comes in, hooking his left knee around the pole to support himself as he spins in a slow circle, coming back around to face the audience. Viktor trips hungry eyes down Yuuri’s entire form, taking in _everything;_ from the way Yuuri holds his eyes half-lidded and hot to the way the pole presses into the tense muscle of his thigh. Yuuri brings his hands back behind him and one over his head, flicking his wrists in a fluid, seductive movement. Viktor makes a mental note to try using that in his flamenco-inspired short program for next season.

_Commas and them decimals,_

Yuuri brings both hands above his head to grip the pole. It wobbles slightly, but Yuuri doesn't even flinch as he arches his back against the metal, pushing his free leg out behind him. Viktor really, _really_ wants to mark up those beautifully pale thighs, suck purple bruises into the seeming _miles_ of unblemished skin this boy has. He drinks in the curve of Yuuri’s spine, imagining him arching up against Viktor's chest in bed, running his hands up Viktor's back and arching and squirming and moaning and writhing and-

 _She don't gotta give it up; she professional_ ,

Yuuri’s legs split, baring his ass in what is probably the closest thing to a religious experience Viktor’s ever undergone; that lace-covered ass sways sinfully as Yuuri wraps his legs around the bar above his hands, seemingly effortlessly propelling himself up the pole. His hair hangs free, swaying lightly from the movement of his body. From his vantage point, Viktor can't even see a barely-there tremor of his arms. _Goddamn_ this boy is strong. Viktor knows how hard pole dancing is – thanks to Chris, too much wine, and a badly-considered bet – and he’s equal parts impressed and turned on by the amount of athletic prowess Yuuri is demonstrating. Viktor had always had a thing for dancers, and athletes… He’s dramatically snapped out of his minor reverie by Yuuri spreading his arms, keeping his legs locked around the pole as he arches his back so his face is up towards the audience. He spins in a lazy circle, and _fuck_ Viktor wants those thighs wrapped around his waist as he-

_She mixing up that Ace with that Hennessy,_

Viktor's heart just about stops when Yuuri _drops_ , loosening the hold of his legs just enough to slide down the pole in a mere second, catching himself with his legs mere _centimeters_ before his body hits the floor. A collective gasp comes from the room and Yuuri smiles, grabbing the pole above his head and hauling himself up, locking his right leg around the it.

_She love the way it tastes, that's her recipe,_

Viktor’s eyes widen when Yuuri keeps himself suspended with only the one leg, using his two other arms to reach behind himself and grab his own foot, pulling it up into the ‘scorpion’ pose, his toes brushing his hair. Money is flying into the stage by this point, a steady stream of ones and some fives that cover the polished wood floor. Viktor _feels_ JJ’s smug eyes on him but he doesn't care in the slightest, keeping his own eyes glued to the god on the pole.

_Running through her veins like it's ecstasy,_

Yuuri releases his leg, spinning himself down the pole and hooking his left leg around it. He stretches his right leg up, up, up the pole, until his entire leg and his crotch is pressed flush with the metal bar. He runs his hands up into his hair and tugs it back, letting his back arch and head hang as his thighs _shine_ under the heavy lights directed at him.

_She already made enough but she'll never leave,_

His hands hit the floor, and Yuuri kicks his legs in a slow, graceful arc over his head, landing on both feet with his palms pressed flat to the floor. He shakes his bum and gathers up a couple of bills, pulling the hem of his shirt up with one hand and tucking the money neatly into the black band strapped around his thigh. He picks up a fiver, dropping into the splits before tucking it into the front of his waistband.

“Here's where it gets good,” Viktor vaguely hears Chris tell JJ, and he's seconds away from slapping the both of them and telling them to _shut the hell up_ because he needs to focus, damnit.

_Six inch heels, she walked in the club like nobody's business,_

More bills decorate the stage but Yuuri pays them no mind, grinding his hips in slow circles against the air. His head falls back as his hands run up and down his clothed chest, gripping and stroking himself and reaching higher to sink his hands into his hair.

_Goddamn, she murdered everybody and I was her witness,_

Viktor’s biting his tongue so hard it goes numb as, one by one, the buttons of Yuuri’s shirt slide out of their respective holes, baring more and more of his mouthwatering chest. His hips never stop their sinful circles, and Viktor thinks he could probably come just from those hips grinding against his own. He's so, so hard, and he doesn't even notice as his left hand sneaks up his chin and over his lips, two knuckles occupying his desperate mouth. _Fuck._

_She works for the money,_

Those hands are still working at that goddamn infernal shirt. Viktor doesn't think he's ever hated a single piece of clothing as much as he does right now, and he's had to wear some pretty weird costumes on the ice. There was one that required forty minutes of straps and buckles and just-

Viktor shakes his head to snap himself out of his thoughts, focusing full-force on the beautiful specimen of sex who now has his shirt hanging open, revealing a pale, muscled chest and a stomach with a small bit of pudge Viktor would very much like to lick his own cum off of.

_She work for the money from the start to the finish,_

Yuuri drops again, facing the audience this time. He runs his hands up the inside of his thighs and drops to his knees, slinking on all fours to the edge of the stage. Someone is is holding out a five-dollar bill, which Yuuri takes between his teeth with a sultry wink. His shoulders roll with a fluidity Viktor has only ever seen before with _water_ , fuck, and his eyes are half-lidded and predatory as he swings his legs off the edge of the stage, spreading his thighs and grinding his hips up practically into the face of the woman who tipped. The club screams, and Viktor’s reaching for his wallet before he even has a chance to think.

_And she worth every dollar,_

Yuuri drops the shirt off of one shoulder, baring the curve of his spine. ‘ _He has back dimples,_ ’ is the only vaguely coherent thought Viktor has before the shirt hits the floor, and Yuuri’s torso is bared in lean, muscled glory. His stomach flexes and strains as he twists around, sticking three fingers into his mouth and sucking. Viktor’s biting on his knuckles, breathless and squirming in his seat as Yuuri trails spit-slicked fingers down his own torso, leaving a shiny trail in their wake, one that Viktor very much wants to trace with his tongue. He wonders what Yuuri smells like. What he _tastes_ like.

 _She worth every dollar and she worth every minute_ ,

Yuuri steps easily from the stage to a table, squatting down and encouraging the blonde man to put the extended money directly into his thigh band. The man runs thick fingers up Yuuri’s thigh, sticking three dollars in singles into the black band. Yuuri winks at him, stepping down off the table and looking more like a succubus than any human should have a right to, all soft turns and feline grace in six-inch heels and a simpering smirk.

_She work for the money, she work for the money,_

Yuuri makes his way into the crowd, taking tips in his waistband and with his teeth, always paying patrons back with a wink or a grind of his hips, depending on how much they pay. Eight dollars earns one woman a caress of the cheek and a hand on her thigh. Viktor’s skin burns at the sight. _He needs those hands on him_.

_She work for the money, she work for the money,_

Yuuri’s his keep working and his lips keep smirking and Viktor’s usually a very proud man but he knows if his ass weren't in the chair he would have fallen to his knees long ago, at the feet and mercy of that boy and those eyes.

“Glorious, isn't he?” Chris mumbles in Viktor’s ear and Viktor just shivers in response. Even with all the languages he knows, not a single word does Yuuri anything close to justice. He just makes a pitiful, strangled noise in response, and it must be a satisfactory answer because Chris chuckles and leans away. He says something to Georgi Viktor doesn't quite catch, making a gesturing motion. Georgi nods, looking back at Viktor.

Viktor is rather famous in the skating world for being emotional, and honest, and surprising. And nothing, to Georgi at least, is as emotional, honest, or surprising as Viktor’s face. His eyes are blown wide, raptured and reverent in a way Georgi doesn't recognize on him. His cheeks are red and flushed, his jaw open on constant, small gasps. He’s fucking _gone;_ his eyes track Yuuri’s progress around the room, and his hands are clenched into tight fists on his knees. He shifts a bit in his seat, and Georgi politely glances away when he notices the massive, massive boner Viktor is sporting.

_She worth every dollar and she worth every minute,_

Yuuri makes his way back to the stage and climbs on, extending those long, beautiful legs and stepping the two feet up off the club floor effortlessly. He steps up to the pole, twining his leg around and grinding his hips against it. JJ turns his head to the left, where two large security guards are bodily removing a small, seedy man who had been filming on his phone.

_Stars in her eyes, she fights for the power. Keepin’ time, she grinds,_

JJ looks back and Yuuri’s upside down, his arms out as he spins around twice before grabbing the pole with his hands, swinging his legs out without breaking his spinning momentum. He spins and spins and his hips are pressed flush to the pole, his left leg keeping him in place and his right kicked out behind him and JJ notices it looks a lot like Viktor’s signature combination spin from his free program last season. A pinprick of worry settles between JJ's shoulder blades, but he shakes it off.

_Day and night, she grinds from Monday to Friday; works from Friday to Sunday,_

Oh, and is Yuuri working for it. His face is the definition of sex; his cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright and half-lidded and his lips hanging open, shiny and spit-slick. His back and shoulders are against the pole, his left hand gripping the pole above his head. He tips his head back, pushing his hips forward as he slides his right hand over his chest and down his front, gripping the outline of his cock through his underwear. Georgi hears Viktor _whimper_ from beside him, and he doesn't know whether to be amused or disgusted. He settles for a mix of the two, leaning more towards amused, and they both startle when Yuuri’s eyes snap open, baring down on someone sat to their left.

Chris is thoroughly enjoying himself. He signals one of the girls walking around with trays, leaning in closer than maybe necessary to order another drink. She nods and moves away and Chris sis back in the booth, tossing one arm over the back of the bench and looking to the stage.

Yuuri is good; much better than he had been when Chris last saw him perform over two years ago. The busty girl comes back with Chris’ tea and Chris thanks her with a five dollar tip on her tray. Her eyes widen, and she smiles shyly. Chris smiles back, sticking the straw between his lips and watching as Yuuri turns the floodlight force of his stare onto someone to Chris’ left.

The woman on the other end of that stare smirks, holding three crisp, ten-dollar bills in her fist. She raises her other hand, beckoning Yuuri forward with her index and middle fingers.

Yuuri pushes himself off the pole, hopping down off the stage and landing perfectly. On the balls of his feet He struts over to the woman and she looks up at him, folding the bills neatly in two, holding them in her left hand as she runs her right down Yuuri’s side, her fingers catching in the curve from Yuuri’s waist to his hips. Yuuri’s smile hardens the minutest degree and he pinches two fingers around her wrist, placing it in her lap. He leans in, placing both hands on the back of her char as he slides closer, swinging his hips almost in her lap. He plucks the bills from her hand, sliding them between his own teeth as he tips her chin up with two fingers, carefully wrapping his fingers in her hair and placing his left foot on the edge of her seat. He yanks, pulling her face down into his crotch as he grinds up, almost pressing his cock to her face. He pushes her head away, gentle but firm on every single one of his movements as he guides her up and out of her chair, stepping back until they're standing just in front of the stage.

The song changes; now it's something faster, Beyoncé’s breathy gasps matching the sounds of envy Viktor lets out.

With one hand between her shoulder blades, Yuuri guides the woman down until her palms touch the floor. He knees her legs wider apart, gripping her hips and thrusting against her ass. Her long, brown hair falls into her face and no one can see her expression, but Viktor assumes it's one of pure bliss. Yuuri pulls the woman back into a standing position, switching their positions so his back is pressed to her front, and her back is against the stage. He works his hips with a sinful grin, pressing his ass against her crotch and grinding like his life depends on it. His hips keep her pretty effectively pinned against the stage, and she braces her hands on top of the stage as she looks down at Yuuri with pure, unbridled heat in her eyes.

Yuuri turns, so they're grinding front to front. The woman gasps, and even across the room Viktor can see her thighs start to tremble. Yuuri walks backwards, sitting heavily in the woman's chair, dragging her with him. He thrusts up once, twice more against her ass, before sliding to the side and letting her collapse back in her seat. She’s breathless, bright-eyed and sweating slightly, and all of her friends gasp and titter and paw at her clothing while she gets her breath back. Yuuri steps back up to the pole.

Viktor’s still clutching his wallet from where he took it out of his pocket ten minutes ago. He tears his eyes away from the spectacle before him, thumbing through his bills with shaking fingers. He has a handful of rubles, and some euros, but in the very back, tucked behind a receipt for a latte and a scone, Viktor finds what he’s looking for.

Viktor had learned, maybe ten years ago, to never travel to a country without usable cash currency. During his senior debut, his card had been rejected by every French atm around and it had taken many, many angry phone calls to the credit companies from Yakov to get it all sorted. So, Viktor always makes sure to get a couple hundred in whatever currency the country he was traveling to used.

The bills feel strange and papery between Viktor's fingers as he extends his hand upwards. Chris, Georgi and JJ feel more than see Viktor's hand go up. They all exchange wide-eyed glances, then simultaneously look up at Viktor's hand. Three blue-green bills catch the light on the little plastic stripe which interrupts the paper; hundreds. Viktor is holding up three crisp, clean, new, one-hundred dollar bills.

Georgi is stunned. Well, he supposes Viktor always had been a “go big or go home” kind of guy.

The movement catches Yuuri’s eye, and he almost falls from where he's upside-down on the pole four feet above the stage. He recovers quickly, the heat in his eyes rocketing up a few notches. Viktor internally melts under the absolute intensity of that dark gaze but his eyes don't waver, pale blue meeting brown-black. Yuuri bends his legs back over his head, gracefully dismounting the pole. He drops off the stage, his step catlike as he stalks towards Viktor's table. He looks the tiniest bit surprised to see Chris, but his attention is quickly swayed back to Viktor.

Viktor's head is spinning, his chest heaving and breath coming fast. He feels less nervous at the kiss and cry after a shoddy program, _fuck_. What is this boy doing to him? Yuuri climbs onto the table, arching his back delectably as he crawls towards Viktor and Viktor's heart stops. Yuuri leans in close, unbelievably close, and plucks the bills from Viktor's hand.

“They're real,” Viktor says, a little bit more breathlessly than he intended. Yuuri's eyes go wide, but he quickly slides them half-shut again, leaning in even closer to purr in Viktor's ear.

“With a tip like this and a face like that, I think you can get a little more than some public grinding, hmm? Come on.” He slides back and off the table, standing with one hip cocked and an impatient look. Viktor all but steamrolls Georgi in his rush to get out of the booth, letting Yuuri pull him off to the right with fingers hot around his wrist. Yuuri pauses to say something in a girl’s ear and she nods, raking an appreciative eye over Viktor before setting her tray on the table next to her, putting a little bit more sway in her step as she walks up the stairs on the side of the stage. Chris catches Viktor's eye and send him a wink and a thumbs up. Viktor just blushes.

The next thing Viktor knows, he has his back slammed into a locked door, with a drop-dead sexy Japanese stripper in his arms. Viktor briefly wonders when his life took this kind of turn, before surrendering to the hot, insistent pressure of Yuuri’s crotch on his.

Viktor moans appreciatively, the sound too loud against the muffled music from the club on the other side of the door. Viktor keeps his palms pressed flat against the door behind him, unsure if he's allowed to touch. _But_ god, _does he want to._

“Sit,” Yuuri said shortly, pointing to the chair on the left side of the room. Viktor does as he’s told, digging his fingernails into his denim-clad thighs. He's so hard it hurts, and having Yuuri standing over him, all lean curves and hot eyes, only makes him harder. He bites his lip.

“Good boy,” Yuuri croons, stepping through the curtain-covered doorway to Viktor's right. He reemerges seconds later, holding one hand behind his back and stepping between Viktor’s spread thighs.

Viktor doesn't even realize his hands are creeping up the backs of Yuuri's thighs until Yuuri says “Oh, no you don't,” and grabs them both, clipping leather and metal cuffs around his wrist and then attaching those behind Viktor's chair. Viktor pulls against his restraints, but they're solid. His legs fall open further and he relaxes, oddly enough. He feels comfortable, at Yuuri's mercy. His head has returned, and he smirks, letting his hair fall into his face.

“Ты возбуждённый?” he asks. “ _Are you turned on?”_ Yuuri just smirks, stepping back and disappearing through the curtain again. Viktor bites his lip, wondering if he did something wrong. He can hear Yuuri moving around in the room, and idly wonders what he’s doing.

Yuuri comes back through the door, and whatever confidence Viktor had built up comes whooshing out of him with a strangled gasp. Yuuri has changed into a small, bikini-cut pink number that rides high on his hips and has a little white satin bow on the back, right above his ass. He's still wearing that little black band around his upper thigh. Viktor swears lowly in a language he can't name, subconsciously pulling at his restraints and making a frustrated noise when his hands don't move.

“Я возбуждённый?” Yuuri responds, leaning in so close his breath spills hot and sweet over Viktor's lips. “ _Am_ I _turned on?”_  “Ч тебя уже стояк.” “ _You've already got a boner.”_

Viktor’s mouth almost hits the floor. Yuuri chuckles darkly.

“You like it in your mother tongue, hmm? If I keep talking to you like that, could you be convinced to put your tongue to other use?”

Viktor could probably be convinced to kill a man if Yuuri just _keeps talking to him like that._ Yuuri laughs again.

“Да,” Viktor breathes. “ _Yeah.”_

“Ah ah ah,” Yuuri reprimands, and Viktor groans. “I need to work for my tips, sweetheart. Now stay still.” He hits a button on a small silver remote, and music pours out of the speakers mounted to the walls.

_Get on your knees, get on your knees, get on your knees,_

Viktor smirks, then groans, then flushes bright red. So. This is how Yuuri wants to go.

_I'll be back at eleven, you just act like a peasant. Got a bow on my panties because my ass is a present,_

Yuuri tips Viktor’s chair back; it's specially designed to have a groove for his hands, which are still cuffed to the chair. Viktor breathes out when his back hits the floor, lolling his head against the hardwood. It's clean, thank _god,_ and if Viktor's being honest with himself he's gonna be thinking about this view of Yuuri as he jacks off for literal months to come. His eyes are dark as he tips Viktor's chin up with the toe of his boot, bending over and smirking.

_You look good when you're begging,_

Yuuri turns around, his ass on full, glorious display as his feet come down, one next to each of Viktor's ears.

_Let me sit in your face, it's okay you can play with it,_

Yuuri drops down into a deep squat, his ass nearly touching Viktor's nose as he swivels his hips. From his stellar vantage point on the floor, Viktor can see _everything_ ; the harsh outline of Yuuri’s cock through his underwear, the curve of his back and the slope of his ass and the pouch of his stomach and Viktor just _wants._ He is so, so tempted to stick his tongue out just to taste, but before he can Yuuri stands up with a smooth roll, stomping one foot dangerously close to Viktor’s head. Viktor shivers, and his cock throbs against the zipper of his jeans.

_When I’m bouncing, it chill out, and don’t you make a mistake with it,_

All Yuuri does is turn around before falling to his knees with an audible _thump_ . He’s _right there,_ his hips grinding tantalizingly mere centimeters above Viktor’s face. A hand slides into his hair, and Viktor didn’t even know he had been leaning up until Yuuri pushes him back onto the ground, his eyes dark and flashing dangerously as he slides himself down Viktor’s body so their hips are aligned.

_Slow grindin’, I’m twerkin’ it,_

This really should not be as sexy as it is. Yuuri swivels his hips, close enough Viktor can feel the heat radiating off of him, can see the minute twitches of his shoulders and chest as he holds himself suspended over Viktor. Can trace with his eyes the single bead of sweat that trickles down Yuuri’s temple, across his cheek and down, down his chest, eventually running down his arm and onto the floor. Yuuri’s smile is smug and self-satisfied, and he finally, _finally,_ presses his hips into Viktor’s. Viktor almost moans with it, his shoulders jerking as he tries to bring his hands up to hold Yuuri’s hips in place and grind against him until he comes in his pants like a fucking teenager.

_I don’t need a dozen roses, you ain’t gotta wine and dine me, no_

Yuuri all but jumps up, tipping Viktor’s chair back upright. The slight amount of blood remaining in Viktor’s head rushes down, and he blinks hard to try and get rid of the static at the edges of his vision.

_I don’t need a pretty poet,_

Viktor can feel Yuuri’s hands on his undoing the cuffs. Rather, undoing the chain that connects them, as the two-inch leather cuffs still remain a solid weight around his wrists.

_Oh, getting all emotional,_

Yuuri guides Viktor to his feet, supporting him with one hand on his shoulder and the other behind his waist. He swings his hips and leans in closer, chuckling darkly as he mouths at the skin of Viktor’s throat. Viktor gasps, threading his hands around Yuuri’s hips in return. Yuuri lets him.

_You gotta beg for it, beg for it,_

Viktor is more than ready to drop to his knees, if only Yuuri would let him. But no, Yuuri is entirely entertained with Viktor’s sharp gasps and soft whines as he works his lips over the skater’s throat, careful not to leave too-obvious marks.

_I wanna see you lookin’ up,_

Viktor goes willingly when Yuuri pries Viktor’s hands off of his ass, leading him over to the bed and pushing him down onto it. Viktor looks like the _definition_ of debauchery; his hair is sweat-damp, sticking every which way and handing in his flushed face and shining eyes. He licks his lips and opens them, ready to say whatever it takes for Yuuri to just _touch_ him again, dammit, but Yuri beats him to it, guiding Viktor until his head is against the headboard and he has a lapful of sexy stripper.

_Baby I’mma need you to beg, beg, beg for it,_

Yuuri arches his back and grinds his hips down, and both men groan with it when their cocks connect, albeit through three layers of clothing. Yuuri is starting to sweat out his pomade and he  tosses his hair out of his eyes, biting his lips and corkscrewing his hips down. Viktor’s hands come up of their own accord, sinking into Yuuri’s cotton-clad ass.

“What have I told you before about touching?” Yuuri murmurs, his voice hot and sweet and rough and dangerous in Viktor’s ear. Viktor isn’t even apologetic any more, running his hands up Yuuri’s hips and over the curve of his ass and thighs, relishing in the feeling of skin and cotton against his palms. It’s when his fingers start teasing the elastic waistband that Yuuri reaches behind himself and grabs Viktor’s wrists, hesitating for a split second before pulling them away from his body. A look of pure, utter _want_ flashes across his face and Viktor can only stare when Yuuri focuses that intense gaze on his face.

Yuuri slides down the bed, dragging Viktor with him until his head hits the pillows. Then Yuuri attaches that _fucking_ chain to Viktor’s left wrist cuff, threading it through a iron loop drilled into the headboard before clipping it to Viktor’s right wrist.

_Give head like a beautician, got me twitchin’ finish your mission,_

Yuuri slides back, resituating himself so his thighs bracket Viktor’s hips. Yuuri looks down, taking in Viktor’s blown eyes and his flushed face and his messy, silver hair splayed out in perfect contrast against the royal blue sheets, and he _wants_ . He wants to make the strong, composed athlete underneath him _fall apart,_ he wants to take Viktor’s entire being apart and then, bit by bit, piece him back together again. He wants to erase that small, sunken line from between his brows, where they’re often creased in worry, and he wants those hands on his hips and he wants that muscled back arching impossibly taut under his hands.

And what Yuuri wants, Yuuri takes.

He rakes his nails down Viktor’s sides, letting him thrust his hips up into nothing. He cups Viktor’s cheek in his hot palm, raking his thumb across his prominent cheekbone as he leans in, his open mouth hovering inches above Viktor’s when he asks–

“Мочь я?” _“May I?”_

Viktor isn't used to this. He usually has most if not all the control in the room, even -- especially-- during sex. Despite how comfortable it feels to sink back in the sheets, submit completely to any and everything Yuuri will give to him, some small, stubborn part of Viktor doesn't want to give up, wants to fight back.

Yuuri knows who he is. Yuuri recognized Chris and JJ and Georgi, back out on the floor. He _has_ to know who Vikor is. And if he knows that, then he knows Viktor never goes without a fight, and he never goes down quietly.

Which is why Viktor finds himself leaning up, taking the lobe of Yuuri’s ear between his teeth and murmuring: “ _I won't kiss it unless it’s gold.”_

Yuuri startles, obviously confused. His bewildered expression quickly melts into one of annoyance, then anger, than twisted amusement.

“Don't go anywhere,” he says with a wink, laughing and sauntering out of the room when Viktor pulls on that _goddamn infernal_ chain that binds his hand above his head. His breathing picks up. Did he do something wrong? Did he overstep a boundary? Oh fuck, he fucked up, he-

Yuuri comes back into the room, looking like a cat who just ate not only the canary, but the entire koi pond and the hamsters too. His boots and pink, bowed panties are done, replaced with gold boyshorts which catch the light in the most entrancing of ways. Viktor can only stare as Yuuri saunters closer, and closer, and closer, until:

“ _K_ _iss my ass, Viktor,_ ” Yuuri breathes, his breath spilling hot and sweet over Viktor’s lips, and Viktor _moans_ with it.

“Gladly.”

Yuuri turns around and Viktor’s heart shorts out when he realizes Yuuri is wearing not just metallic gold boyshorts, but metallic gold boyshorts with the _ass cut out._ In the shape of a heart. Viktor makes a mental note to thank Chris for this every day as long as he lives, christ.

The music and the dance are long forgotten as Yuuri tumbles onto the bed, reattaching his lips to Viktor’s neck with new determination. Viktor arcs into it, the sensation of Yuuri’s lips buzzing all the way down to his _toes_ and it’s so, so good. He hasn’t done this in a while, he distantly thinks as Yuuri nips his collar bones, and he’s _never_ done anything like this. All coherent thoughts fly out the window when Yuuri yanks down the neckline of his shit and scrapes his teeth scrape over his nipple, and Viktor’s wrists clank against the restraints when all he wants to do is sink his hands into that soft black hair and never let go.

“I won’t have sex with you,” Yuuri breathes, his hot breath tickling the spit-slicked skin of Viktor’s chest. “I don’t do that. I’m a dancer, not a prostitute. But for you-” he sucks in a breath through his teeth, arching his back just so and looking up at Viktor with half-lidded eyes. Viktor matches his gaze, hanging on to every word that spills from those beautiful, red lips. Yuuri could be telling him to go to hell and Viktor gladly would, as long as he got to hold Yuuri’s hand on the way down.

“For you I can make an exception,” Yuuri continues, his hands coming down to frame Viktor’s cock through his jeans. He leans up, licking the shell of Viktor’s ear. “Because I kind of really want to blow you.”

“Can I–” Viktor tries to grab Yuuri’s hands, his hair, _anything_ , but they’re kept firmly in place above his head. “I really want to– _something_ , I don’t care, just let me–” He scrunches his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. He knows he’s not making any sense, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “I want to make you feel good too,” he finally whispers, and his eyes are wrenched open by a sharp intake of breath by Yuuri.

“I think,” Yuuri says, his eyes so dark Viktor can’t tell if there’s any more brown of if they’re fully black, “that could be arranged.”

He reaches for Viktor’s zipper, undoing his belt and jeans with practiced ease. Viktor’s back arches and he groans, his biceps pulling taut against the cuffs. Yuuri shifts until he’s straddling Viktor’s head, his back arched and his head down near Viktor’s cock. He rips open the foil packet of a condom (hell if Viktor knows where he got it, and hell if he cares) and rolls it down Viktor’s length. Viktor sees _stars_ , a rough, wrecked whimper sliding from his lips before he can clench them shut.

“Can I– can I have my hands?” he asks, yanking his wrists uselessly against his restraints. He can _feel_ Yuuri’s simpering smirk from where his lips are pressed to his cock.

“No,” Yuuri says simply, opening his mouth and swallowing Viktor’s entire length in one smooth, sure move. Viktor’s jaw pops with how hard it falls open, and he clenches his hands above his head, desperately trying to resist bucking up into the tight, perfect heat of Yuuri’s mouth. Yuuri sinks down even _further,_ and _fuck_ – that’s his throat fluttering around the head of Viktor’s cock, giving way as he presses impossibly deeper.

Viktor is struggling to breathe, much less think, but he opens his eyes and cranes his neck up, his tongue eagerly poking out to taste. Yuuri groans around Viktor’s cock when he feels Viktor’s tongue lick a long, filthy stripe up over his hole.

Viktor can feel more than hear the muffled curses Yuuri mumbles around his cock as he works his tongue, lapping flat stripes over Yuuri’s entrance. Yuuri’s hands move at the same time; one dipping under the waistband of his boyshorts to grasp at his own cock and the other reaching down to smooth over Viktor’s balls, pressing two fingers to the skin below Viktor’s cock and massaging them in a way that has the skater whimpering as he sucks the puckered skin of Yuuri’s hole.

Yuuri tries to stifle his moans, focusing all of his attention on keeping his jaw loose and swirling his tongue. He tightens his hand around himself, working over his own cock with tight, even strokes. Viktor is more than enjoying himself, if his constant moans are anything to go by, and Yuuri has to actively fight off his grin as he bobs his head and works his throat. A surge of pride swells in Yuuri’s chest at making _Viktor fucking Nikiforov_ make those noises, but he stamps it down. He pulls off, ignoring Viktor’s noise of protest as he puts his hands on the sheets beside him, sitting up straight and working his hips back on Viktor’s tongue. Viktor flexes his tongue into a point, pressing it deep inside of Yuuri, wishing he could use his _fucking hands_ because he knows he could make it a thousand times better. Nevertheless he still focuses every ounce of his thought process on pleasing Yuuri with his tongue, making his back arch and hands flex and those sinfully sweet sounds drip from his red, swollen lips.

“Such- such a やりまん,” Yuuri breathes. “ _Such a slut.”_ Viktor has no idea what he’s saying but he moans with it, the sound buzzing up Yuuri’s spine and making his thighs shake. He works his hand faster over his own leaking cock, shoving his panties down his hips in order to wrap his fingers around his entire length, jacking himself in quick, precise strokes.

“ _Yes,_ Viktor, that’s it. Good, you’re doing so well-” He interrupts himself with a moan, all but falling forward and wrapping his fingers and lips around Viktor’s cock. Spit drips down Yuuri’s chin, and while it should be disgusting it just makes everything hotter and wetter and so much better, and he thumbs over the head of his own cock as he sinks all the way down on Viktor’s.

Viktor’s neck aches from the awkward angle but he doesn’t fucking care, his attention only concentrated on his cock and Yuuri’s noises. The pleasure coiling in his gut builds and builds, and he feels like he’s going to explode, going to combust into a supernova and take Yuuri with him. He just wants his hands, needs to anchor himself in Yuuri’s hips, in the sheets, in _something, anything,_ but instead his fists clench uselessly around nothing as he pushes his hips up and up and up, just about lifting Yuuri off the bed as he thrusts his cock down Yuuri’s willing throat, chasing his release.

Yuuri’s throat constricts around Viktor’s cock and he moans, the vibrations sending electric sparks through Viktor’s copper-wire veins. He tastes blood on his tongue as he cries out, his eyes unfocused and he’s so, so far past words but he manages a rough, broken moan of ‘ _Yurochka'_ before his eyes slam shut and his hips thrust up and he’s _coming,_ stars bursting behind his eyelids and fire singing through his veins before burning out to warm, lazy relief.

Viktor is working his lips and teeth and tongue before he’s even fully finished coming, unable to focus on anything else but bringing Yuuri pleasure. He doesn’t stop, not even when Yuuri moans brokenly, not even when he bows his back and cries out and comes all over his own hand and Viktor’s chest.

“ _Vitya,_ ” Yuuri gasps, and Viktor’s heart swells in his chest as he finally, _finally_ relents, pressing a surprisingly chaste kiss to Yuuri’s left cheek before letting his head flop bonelessly back on the pillows, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. Yuuri makes quick work of the condom and the chain, standing on shaking legs to retrieve a silky white robe from the room through the beaded curtain. His eyes are tired and his smile is blissed out when he returns.

 “Can I see you again?” Viktor blurts suddenly, rubbing his raw wrists and wincing at Yuuri’s suddenly startled expression. He doesn’t regret his words however, looking down only to readjust his jeans and belt before looking back up at Yuuri with a hopeful smile.

Yuuri’s immediate response is to shut down; to throw Viktor out and never see him again. He can’t afford to lose himself in that smile, in those eyes, in those lips he so desperately wants to feel on his own. He sees a purple mark start to bloom on Viktor’s throat, and Yuuri has to squash the wave of possessiveness that surges in his chest. He wants to lay Viktor out, mark him up with bites on his neck, his chest, his thighs. He wants to see Viktor skate for _Yuuri_ , with eyes only for him even as the crowds surge and swoon and scream. He’s wanted it forever, for as long as he can remember. But it’s unrealistic and Yuuri _knows_ it, no matter how much hope Viktor holds in his eyes.

So Yuuri just smiles sadly, holding his robe closed with his left hand and opening the door with his right, fixing his eyes on the deep hollow of Viktor’s throat instead of meeting his eyes.

“I don’t think that would be for the best,” Yuuri finally manages, fiddling with the hem of his robe. “You have a reputation, you can’t be seen with–” He gestures around vaguely, pulling his robe tighter around himself. He suddenly feels very naked, exposed and vulnerable under Viktor’s gaze in a way he never has on stage before.

“But what if I want to?” Viktor says, trying to ignore the clenching in his chest. He _knows_ he’ll regret this for the rest of his life if he doesn’t at least _try_ – “What if I really, really want to? Please, Yuuri, don’t worry about _me_ –”

“I don’t think it would be for the best,” Yuuri says, dropping his gaze even lower. “But–” Viktor protests.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, and his voice is so decisive and final that Viktor stops in his tracks.

“O-okay,” Viktor says quietly. He shuffles forward, lifting his hand on a half-formed thought before realizing what he’s doing and dropping it, letting it dangle uselessly at his side. Viktor is out the door by the time Yuuri looks up and he sighs, sagging against the wall and burying his face in his hands. “It’s for the best,” he mutters to no one in particular, stumbling to his dressing room through the curtain of beads and sinking down into the chair in front of his vanity. His eyes are rimmed with red when he looks at his reflection in the mirror and he mutters to himself in angry Japanese, blotting under his eyes with a powder sponge and changing into stylish sneakers and low-slung black jeans over a lime-green jockstrap, pushing his hair back out of his face and nodding once to his reflection before strutting back out onto the floor. Viktor and his friends are – thankfully – gone, and Yuuri is almost immediately snagged by a tipsy, short-haired woman who leans into his ear, huskily asking him how much it is for a lapdance. Yuuri plasters on a smirk, murmuring “Twenty-five for a song, sweetheart,” in her ear before dragging her over to the booths, pushing her down into the chair and taking her money with a wink and a grin, raising his arms above his head and snapping his hips to the beat of the song, letting him lose himself in the pounding bass line that matches his heartbeat.

 

***

 

“How was it?” Chris says with that _fucking_ self-satisfied smile as Viktor stumbles back to their booth, sinking into the chair and stealing JJ’s whiskey. He downs it all in one gulp, slamming the glass back onto the table with a wince. Georgi looks at him, surprised, but quickly smoothes his expression over, playing with his straw and the ice in the bottom of his empty glass.

“What’s his address?” Viktor says in lieu of an answer, running a hand through his hair. Chris snorts and stands. “Well, Viktor is emotionally attached to the dancers, I think it’s time to go.” JJ snorts, but lets Chris lead the way. He tries not to notice how utterly forlorn Viktor looks, but it’s difficult. Georgi seems to be able to sense this, and he talks to Viktor in low Russian during the car ride back, but only gets monosyllabic answers in return. He eventually gives up, and the car is silent until Chris pulls back into the hotel parking lot, tossing the keys to the valet boy with a thanks and a tight-lipped smile. JJ tips the three a salute before wandering off in his own direction. Chris does the same, leaning in for a hug from Viktor before heading off to his own room. Georgi and Viktor walk to the elevator in companionable silence, since their rooms are next to each other.

“Hey Viktor,” Georgi says as they part at the elevator banks, Viktor to the left and Georgi to the right. “Chase love. Don’t make the same mistake I did with Anya.”

Viktor’s eyes twitch up in a half-considered smile. “Спасибо,” he says. “ _Thank you._ ” Georgi smiles softly in return before heading off.

 

***

 

Viktor lies awake in his too-big bed later that night, listening to the sounds of the nightlife happening hundred of feet below his hotel window. His turns over, groaning and shoving a pillow over his head in a futile attempt to sleep. His phone buzzes on his nightstand and he flops his hand over to check it, squinting at the bright screen.

 _1262 Davidson Drive_ , the text from Chris reads. Viktor’s lips twitched up into a smile, and his phone buzzes again. _But you didn’t hear it from me_.

Viktor falls asleep mere moments later, his phone clutched protectively to his chest and a smile on his face.

 

 ***

 

It’s exactly how Chris finds him the next morning, with his head tossed to the side and his hair splayed on the pillow beside him. His dark eyelashes fan across his cheeks, his lavender eyelids fluttering as he sleeps. He looks beautiful like this, Chris thinks, and he snaps a picture with his phone.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Chris says with a wink. Viktor smiles sleepily up at him, stretching his arms above his head. Memories flash through his head of the night before, of his arms being chained to the headboard and he groans, scrunching his eyes closed and staving off the mental images welling up.

“Good night?” Chris asks, and Viktor nods. “The best,” he sighs, his eyes unfocused and his smile blissful.

“You’re fucked,” Chris informs him with undisguised glee.

“Да,” Viktor says with a sigh, flopping back on his pillows and tossing his arms over his face. “ _Yeah._ I so, so am.”

Chris pats his arm. “Bon garçon,” he hums. “ _Good boy.”_ Viktor looks up at him with shining eyes, and Chris smiles.

“I know he may not seem like it, but Yuuri’s gone for you too. Now up,” he claps his hands, ushering Viktor out of bed. “The practice rink opens in an hour, and Yuri will throw a fit if you show up smelling like a club.” Viktor snorts and stands, letting Chris herd him into the bathroom and into the shower, standing under the hot spray with an amazed expression. Chris is saying something but Viktor can’t bring himself to care, washing his hair and body as if in a daze.

 _‘He likes me too,_ ’ he thinks to himself, still grinning like a lovestruck fool when he steps out of the shower.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Chris says with a wave, pausing at the bathroom door. He looks back over his shoulder. “And Viktor?” Viktor pulls the towel off his head, cocking his eyebrow in questioning. “I don’t know what you’re going to do with the information you got last night, but whatever it is, know that he has a heart of glass and gold, and I will not hesitate to crush you if you hurt him.” His smile is still blinding, but Viktor knows a real threat when he hears one. “Oh, and also, he likes roses. Red ones. Ciao!” He closes the door behind himself, and Viktor just stares at his own reflection in the mirror as he continues to dry himself off.

Roses. Okay. Viktor can do roses.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone wants to correct anything i've said in any language please feel free lmao


End file.
